Counterpoint
by scorchedtrees
Summary: A collection of drabbles and ficlets set in the Rivetra music AU. Rating for safety.
1. violin mark

_A/N: These were all originally posted on tumblr and I decided to throw them together in a a random collection on ffnet as well. They'll be posted in the order I wrote them._

_If you have no idea what the 'Rivetra music AU' is, it's basically three fics I wrote in which Petra is a violinist and Levi a pianist; they're on my profile. The order is 'Perfect Harmony,' 'Chords of Progression,' and 'Rhythms of the Heart.'_

_Anyway this is rated M just in case for what will be chapter five. The rest should be quite sfw._

* * *

Petra has never liked her violin mark.

It's an inevitable thing to have as a violinist; she plays her instrument so much that the constant chafing of the skin below her left jaw against her chinrest will of course leave a blemish. All the violinists and violists she knows have a mark there, a symbol of their hard work and dedication that most bear with pride.

Petra doesn't mind it, really, but she doesn't like it either. She's used to it by now, of course, has been seeing it in the mirror since she was a little girl; the discoloration is just another part of her—but she doesn't _like_ it. Yes, she plays the violin and is proud of that, but that doesn't mean she wants physical proof of it printed on her body.

Petra has never liked her violin mark, but Levi loves it.

She can tell by the way he touches it with his fingers, gently stroking it as he cups her chin in his hand before bending his head to kiss her; or the way he presses his lips to it, softly and quietly like he is telling her a secret; or the way he sucks on it, teeth scraping slightly, tongue flicking out to caress it, teasing the sensitive spot there.

He tucks her hair behind her ears in the mornings and kisses her just below the jaw, sending little sparks of pleasure shooting through the dulled nerve endings, and she thinks maybe she likes her violin mark after all.


	2. fingers

_A/N: Written for a prompt. Set before part 3. Or maybe 2 idk._

* * *

_"Ugh,"_ Petra groans, flopping backwards onto the couch in a heap of exhaustion and loose limbs. "I'm so freaking _tired_."

"I don't see why," Levi says from the doorway to her apartment, her coat draped over his arms and her violin case on his back. "You only played for five hours."

His serious tone and his joking tone are exactly the same so it takes Petra a moment to realize he's being sarcastic. She rolls her eyes at him and continues to lie there, holding her hands up to study them under the living room light.

"Look at this," she complains, wriggling her fingers. "Just look. I swear my right thumb hasn't been this deformed since I first picked up a bow and—look! I'm surprised my strings haven't completely rusted considering how black my fingers are."

He closes the door and sets her instrument down by the shoe rack, joining her on the couch. She forces herself to shuffle her feet aside to make room for him, but her ankles end up resting on his left thigh anyway, sending waves of his body heat shooting through her skin.

"And my poor fingertips," she continues, making a face as she taps them against the edge of the couch's armrest. "Ouch. Especially my pinky. Typing's going to be a bitch tonight."

She doesn't expect Levi to react—he often just sits there in silence as she rambles on, but she knows he hears everything she says—but to her surprise, he suddenly plucks her left hand from the air where she is still waving it around and turns it over in his palm.

She lets him contemplate it, but inwardly she cringes—her hands have never been attractive, and they are most definitely quite hideous after she just spent the whole afternoon playing violin at a charity event, only stopping for five-minute breaks every hour. Her fingers have always been rough and callused, but now they are the color of her fingerboard, the color of soot, thick black ridges on each tip where she pressed them into the strings, surrounded by white dead skin.

"You're so lucky your instrument doesn't do anything to you," she sighs. "Except maybe make you fat because you sit all the time."

She's just teasing, of course—she has hugged him before, felt the hard press of his chest against hers; he is most definitely not fat—but he looks up at that, frowning. "I am not _fat_," he says, and—is that _indignation_ in his tone?

"I'm just _kidding_!" Petra laughs. "You thought I was serious? You _are_ such a girl, sheesh. Look at your hands; they're so delicate and well-kept and _girly_." She takes his other hand in hers and holds it up to emphasize her point.

He doesn't say anything to this, but she expected as much—Levi is more of a clean freak than any female she's known and he takes great pride in his meticulous appearance, his unblemished fingers, his perfect cuticles.

His palm is warm against hers, his fingers smooth and soft, and Petra envies him for it. She loves her instrument, would never give it up for anything, but it leaves such marks upon her body—there's that annoying dark splotch under her left jaw left over from her chinrest too—whereas Levi's dexterous, talented fingers are as untouched as any non-musician's.

Looking at those deft, lovely fingers, she wonders not for the first time how they would feel threaded through her hair, tugging at her clothes, but she shoves the thought aside quickly before it can make her do something stupid. She pushes her thumb up against his and rubs circles by his fingernail.

"Yup," she says. "No one can tell you play piano judging from _this_."

His other hand is still flipping hers around, his fingers exploring the tips of hers, and he says, "I wouldn't mind calluses."

"Are you serious?" Petra twists her head to look at him; his eyes are still trained on her hand, his face thoughtful. "I can hardly feel anything in my fingertips after practicing hard, and typing is painful for a while afterwards. You _want_ that?"

"You can see your commitment to your instrument, the effort you put into it," Levi says. "If you didn't know I play piano, what would you think I do for a living?"

She cocks her head and studies him for a moment—his neat dark hair, his open-collared shirt, the strong tendons of his arms, his worn jeans and polished shoes. "I don't know. I'd probably think you were some office guy," she says, and he snorts.

"Exactly."

She never thought of it like that; perhaps she should be grateful. The violin has been a part of her life for so long, she can't imagine what she'd be like without it.

"What would you think _I_ do for a living if I didn't have these?"

He smirks and untangles his other hand from hers, flicking her playfully on the shoulder. "With _your_ looks?"

She nods and tries not to feel nervous as his eyes travel down the length of her body in speculation. He probably didn't mean anything by his comment, but something about his low voice and the dark, stormy gray of his irises makes her breath still in her throat, and for some ridiculous reason she finds herself hoping he'll say something like—

"I'd probably think you were still in high school."

She shoves the heel of her foot into his knee as hard as possible.


	3. waltz

_A/N: This was also written for a prompt. Set before part 3. I would like to warn you that it's really stupid._

* * *

Sometimes Levi thinks Hanji is a dream come true, but whether that dream is good or bad he finds it extremely difficult to tell.

On one hand, she helps him in so many ways; she is his friend, she calls him out on his particularly shitty behavior, she coaches him on how to behave in interviews so he doesn't scare his potential CD buyers off or whatever; she is likely more than 50% responsible for the success of his career, considering how much effort he puts into it.

On the other hand, she can be the world's most annoying person; she is loud and obnoxious, she loves to say random things to try and mess with him, she never stops making insinuations and inappropriate comments about him and Petra; not to mention she likes to sign him up for various things without his consent.

Which is why he is currently sitting at his piano bench, staff paper spread out in front of him and a pencil in his hand, trying not to glare as he attempts to write music for a waltz.

This would be so much easier if it were a Chopin-style waltz, but Chopin's waltzes were written for concert performance, not dancing. Hanji was sparse on the details but she did mention a ballroom dance; apparently the manager of the event wants original music written for an English waltz that night, something to do with impressing several important attendees.

What irritates him most about the whole thing is the deadline. He likes to compose, but that is in his free time when the inspiration hits. Inspiration for writing music is a free, flighty thing that cannot be forced; nothing good comes out of trying to force it, which explains why he's been staring at his paper for nearly ten minutes now, the only thing written down the key signature (3/4, of course) and the tempo (90 BPM). He can't even decide if he wants to use F or G major yet.

He sighs and cracks his knuckles against the piano bench, then taps them lightly in triple time over the keys. _Mozart, _he thinks, _channel Mozart,_ but it's tough, especially when one of Petra's ridiculous-as-hell Korean pop songs that she likes to play out loud is stuck in his head.

"Is something wrong?" she asks from where she is sprawled across his bed, humming something tuneless under her breath and typing a message on her phone. She often spends lazy Sunday afternoons with him, relaxing and just hanging out as most other people get ready for another week of work.

Her hair is spread out in a crown of gold around her head, her blue shirt dark against his white bedsheets; it has ridden up a little, revealing a strip of bare skin over the waistline of her jeans, and he finds his eyes caught on it for a moment.

She looks at him inquisitively and he forces his eyes back to hers, hoping she hasn't noticed the direction of his gaze. "No," he says, rubbing his knuckles. "Just trying to write an English waltz."

"You're writing a waltz?" She sits up, a spark of interest in her eyes. "Why?"

"Commission."

"Ah. That makes sense; I didn't think you'd write one for fun."

"Why not?" he says dryly. "I don't seem like a waltz sort of person to you?"

She snorts. "Have you ever danced one before?"

"No."

"I figured."

F major might work; he's not in the mood to work with sharps right now. He writes down the key signature and the first note—the tonic, of course—and then finds himself stuck again as his mind refuses to come up with more.

"Having trouble?" Petra says, sympathy in her tone.

"These are so much easier to play than to write," Levi grumbles, setting his pencil down again. "All the melodies in my head are those of Mozart's, or Bach's, or whatever. How the hell am I supposed to come up with my own when I have no idea what the fucking dance even looks like?"

"Hey," she says, swinging her legs off his bed, "why don't I show you?"

He looks up from the keys he's fingering and gives her an odd look. "What?"

"Stand up and I'll show you. You need some ideas, don't you? Maybe if you dance it, you'll get a better feeling for how music for it should be written."

She is standing now, feet firmly planted on the ground; her shoes are next to his closet and her socks are purple, a hole in the knee of her jeans, her shirt wrinkled and her hair messy from where she lay on it. She is smiling though, one hand outstretched to him, and she looks so warm and inviting he very nearly gets up from the piano bench.

And then rationality sets in and he turns back to his mostly blank score. "I don't dance."

"Which is why I said I'll show you, dumbass."

He doesn't budge. "I _don't_ dance."

He expects her to leave him alone then—most people do when he brings out that tone of voice—but really, it's _Petra _and he should have known. Next thing he knows she is standing by him, hands tugging at his, yanking him until he nearly stumbles off the piano bench, his feet finding purchase on the floor just in time.

"You can play in concert halls in front of hundreds or even thousands of people, you've got nearly a million subscribers on YouTube last time I checked, but you can't even do a simple waltz step?" She sticks her tongue out at him. "Come on, Levi. It's easy. I'll show you."

He wants to pull away, jerk his hands out of hers and return to the piano, but he doesn't really because it feels nice, her hands holding his. It feels natural, it feels right, so he doesn't say anything, which is basically his way of acquiescing.

She smirks, triumphant. "Good boy," she murmurs, and he wants to tell her to shut up because he is not a dog, but then she takes his right hand and places it on her waist, bringing her left hand up to rest on his shoulder, and he nearly forgets how to breathe.

She is suddenly much closer to him, their similarity in heights causing his eyes to land just north of hers, resting on the fine arch of her eyebrows and the pale, smooth skin of her forehead, strands of hair falling over it. The fingers of his left hand are entwined with hers, their palms warm and barely brushing, and the fingers of his right hand graze the exposed skin of her side and he almost starts stroking it before realizing what a bad idea that would be.

She stares into his eyes for a moment, her own wide and speckled with little chips of burnt amber, and then she clears her throat and looks somewhere past his shoulder. "Right," she says. "So the waltz you're writing… English waltz, you said? It's usually danced one step per beat in this position—it's called closed position. And three beats a measure, right? You're supposed to be leading right now but here, follow my feet…"

She starts moving and he tries to move with her, nearly trodding on her foot with his first step. He manages to avoid doing so but then knocks her in the chin by accident and they both wince.

"Just a simple circuit of three," she says. "Don't think too much about it; it's really not that hard. Step, two, three—step, two three—oh, that's pretty good—step, two, three—yeah, that's right, you're starting to get it!"

It's true, if he doesn't think then his feet just move in time with hers without any help from his brain. If he doesn't think about his feet, his mind wanders to her hair, how close he is to it and how nice it smells, a soft scent he can't quite identify—maybe something floral? He never knew his flowers.

Or her face, light freckles dotting her nose, her eyes sparkling with sunlight, her skin smooth and creamy like milk or maybe butter, something delicious he wants to taste with his tongue.

Or the feeling of her hand in his; she is so close to him he can feel warmth radiating from every pore of her body, and it makes the back of his neck crawl with heat, his stomach churn with desire, his chest feel tight with longing.

It is only a basic step, the most basic of them all, but it is certainly rhythmic (_step_, two, three, _step_, two, three) and he finds a certain peacefulness in it, a soft pattern of gentle movement and simple joy, something that sings of the freshness of spring or the quiet dewdrops of summer, the changing colors of autumn or the stillness of winter mornings after a nighttime snowfall. It sounds like his pulse in his ears, the beating of his heart in time with his steps, and from that emerges a melody, dainty notes and careful chords that form the beginning of the piece he wants to write.

He slows then, and stops, and Petra does too, following his lead, but she does not let go of him. "You got it?" she asks when he looks at her; it must be evident in his face.

Her cheeks are slightly flushed, her eyes gleaming with something almost like wonder, and looking at her, his breath catches in his throat; his hand fits perfectly on her waist, her fingers warm in his.

"Yeah," he says, and his voice comes out much more quietly than he intended, almost a whisper, a whispered promise of something yet to come. "Yeah, I think I did."


	4. hickey

_A/N: This has also been posted in the AU three sentence fics chapter of my Rivetra drabble collection but whatever._

* * *

Petra is still indignant as they leave the subway, emerging onto the crowded streets of Manhattan to join the throngs of pedestrians heading home for the evening. "I still can't believe she―I mean, that's not the first time I've heard it, I know it _does _look like one but―I just can't believe a _complete stranger_ told me I had a hickey and―it's a _violin mark_, dammit!"

Levi hasn't said anything as she complained for the past two minutes, but he finally turns to her, and his face is passive but there is a clear smirk in his voice as he says, "You know, if you were wearing a lower shirt, she wouldn't have been wrong."

She smacks him in the arm, feeling her cheeks start to heat up, and vows to get him back later that night.

* * *

_A/N: Let me know if anyone's interested in more; if not this'll probably be the last music AU drabble I'll post on ffnet. You can always read these on tumblr instead, where I'll post more._


	5. first time

_A/N: And this is why this collection is rated M. Don't look at me I can't write nsfw crap._

* * *

At some point Petra finds they have moved from the piano bench to the floor; she's not sure when that happened and she can't be bothered to care when Levi's fingers are tugging at the hem of her shirt, stroking steady rhythms across her bare skin, causing all sorts of sounds she's never heard before to come shuddering out of her throat.

He scrapes his teeth down her neck, his tongue soothing the sting shortly after and she gasps as he hits a sensitive spot. She can feel his lips twitch in amusement against her skin and she wants to say _you ass_ but the sensation is so pleasing in a prickly sort of way that she doesn't bother.

She spreads her palms across the warm skin of his back—for someone who spends most of his time sitting in front of a piano or a computer, he is quite fit—as he works at the buttons of her shirt, and she silently curses herself for wearing something buttoned tonight; she helps him, fingers fumbling, not caring if she pops one off or tears the fabric. He pushes it aside and his gaze is not full of lust or a greedy hunger—it is soft at the edges, warm, and it sends the butterflies in her stomach swooping, the little breath left in her throat fleeing.

"Like what you see?" she says, giving him what she hopes is a cocky smirk.

His only response is to lower his mouth to her collarbone, kissing, biting, sucking as he travels lower, his fingers undoing the clasp of her bra; she swears those breathy sounds are not hers as she arches into his touch, her fingernails tightening on his back whenever his tongue swirls around a particularly sensitive area.

He raises his head to meet her gaze; his eyes are heated and intense, the color of burning metal, molten steel. "Bed," he says.

Of course, he wouldn't want to do this on the _floor_. The word is not spoken like a question but she can tell it is one anyway in the slight faltering of his hands, the tentative way his eyes trace the curves of her body. He is asking for permission.

And maybe she shouldn't give it, maybe they are going too fast—she only just kissed him for the first time less than half an hour ago, really—but this is _Levi_ and she's known him for so long now, has loved him for nearly as long, and it feels like she's been waiting for this far longer than that.

So she lets him pull her up, lets him press her into his bed, those sheets as familiar to her as her own, lets his hands and mouth explore her body, lets him lower himself onto her; and she kisses and bites and sucks on his skin, fingernails raking down his back as she rocks against him, the rhythm imperfect but their hearts beating in perfect sync.

Afterwards, when she is completely spent and lies there, her limbs entwined with his, she kisses his sweaty, damp hair and tightens her arms around his shoulders. His fingers curl around her waist and he whispers something she can't hear against her neck, and she smiles because this feels right, _they_ feel right, and she knows she made the right choice.


	6. morning after

_A/N: Actually this may be kind of M-rated too for implications idk man whatever._

* * *

Sunlight streams through the gap in the curtains, warm and bright as it sparkles off the snow outside, sharp pinpricks of light slicing through the glass. Petra stirs and opens her eyes, squinting against the glare, reaching up to rub a hand across her eyes—and freezes momentarily when she nearly hits the person lying next to her.

It takes another moment for it to sink in that she's not in her own bed, and then memories of the night before rush back—_hard kisses, heated lips, stroking fingers, skin against skin_—and she fights back a blush, because _damn_—she hasn't done anything like that in… ever, really.

And it was amazing.

The blush slowly recedes, turning into what she's sure is a goofy grin, and she wriggles her feet, shakes her limbs around; she's not even that sore. She cranes her neck to look at the clock Levi has hanging on the wall: it reads 11:43 AM. They _did_ stay up pretty late last night.

"Levi," she whispers, turning back to him and poking him in the side. "Levi, get up."

He cracks one eye open to give her a grumpy look and then closes it again, not moving. She huffs and leans over, ready to tickle him, but nearly yelps as his hands grab hers, tugging them away from her chosen spot to attack; his arms snake around her waist and he pulls her to him, his bare chest solid and warm and comforting.

"Levi, it's nearly noon," she says, but she's certainly not complaining.

He mumbles something incoherent, his eyes still closed; his hands start rubbing circles against her stomach and she thinks of where they were last night, what they did, and she has to stave off another goofy grin. His fingers aren't only good for playing piano, that's for sure.

They move a little lower and she stifles a squeak of surprise, trying not to blush again as she swats his hand away. _"No,"_ she says, hoping she sounds stern. "I'm tired and it's getting late. We should get up."

He presses a lazy kiss to the hollow of her throat and she gulps. _"Levi,"_ she whines, and his response is to trace his fingers up her stomach, his tongue lapping at the sensitive skin just below her jaw.

She's just thinking maybe she's not that tired after all when he finally speaks. "Petra?" he murmurs, the low thrum of his voice tickling her collarbone.

Well, at least he's somewhat coherent now. "What?"

She can feel the curve of his smirk against the side of her neck. "Last night, when I…" His fingers trail down her abdomen again. "That first sound you made was a C-sharp."

This time she elbows him as hard as she can.

* * *

_A/N: I keep ending up writing things in this AU but let me know if you're interested in more because I don't want to spam you all with notifications for this fic :)_


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